One Little Slip, a whistle blowers story

Becoming the Job

Patrol work suited me in ways I didn’t fully appreciate at first. I wasn’t interested in rank or recognition. I wanted motion, responsibility, and the freedom to solve problems without waiting for permission. Patrol offered that—if you proved you could handle it.

Bethlehem was small enough that everyone knew everyone, and large enough that you couldn’t hide. Calls weren’t anonymous. The people you dealt with were often neighbors, classmates, or friends of family. That reality changes how you work. You don’t get to treat people as abstract problems when you’ll see them again at the grocery store or the school concert.

I learned early that empathy wasn’t a weakness—it was a tool. People in crisis didn’t need lectures or performances. They needed someone steady, present, and honest. Even in the worst situations, I knew the people suffering most could feel whether you genuinely cared. That mattered more than anything else.

Not all calls were tragic. Some were absurd. Some were unforgettable for reasons you couldn’t explain without sounding unprofessional. Humor—often dark—was how we processed what couldn’t be fixed. It wasn’t cruelty. It was survival.

In 1992, the department opened the Selkirk satellite office on Route 9W. The goal was twofold: faster response times in the south end of town and rebuilding trust with people who felt forgotten. The State Police substation nearby had closed, and this was our way of reestablishing presence.

I took the position and worked almost exclusively out of that office for about twelve years.

It was, in many ways, the perfect assignment for me.

I’ve since learned there’s a name for how I operate: hyper-independence. At the time, I just knew I worked best when I was accountable to the job, not the noise around it. Being relieved by a single officer at roll call meant I missed the locker-room grievances and the endless circular complaints. I didn’t feel deprived. I felt free.

The trade off was isolation.

Working alone, largely unaccountable in the best and worst senses of the word, I avoided much of the departmental friction others dealt with. I also missed the informal bonds that form when people sit together long enough to vent. Job satisfaction and morale aren’t abstract concepts—they’re shaped by proximity. I wasn’t proximate.

What I was, however, was available.

From Selkirk, I could move quickly—north, south, or into the hill towns. When something big happened, I was often close enough to matter. I handled my area thoroughly and responded wherever I was needed. It reinforced a sense of competence that became part of my identity: if something went sideways, I could be trusted to deal with it.

Sometimes that trust bordered on fate.

There are moments I look back on and realize how narrowly paths diverged. In 2004, when Peter Porco was found deceased in his home, I was out on sick leave recovering from back surgery. Based on the schedule and geography, I likely would have been the first officer through that door. I’ve seen the photos. I don’t regret missing that one.

The job teaches you that absence can be as consequential as presence.

The Selkirk years were steady rather than dramatic. Outside of the town’s major landslide in 2000—which generated more overtime than I could take due to family responsibilities—nothing earth-shattering happened. That, too, is part of the job. Long stretches of normalcy punctuated by moments that remind you how quickly everything can change.

It was during these years that people began to comment on something I had always sensed: strange things happened around me. Calls unfolded in unexpected ways. Situations escalated or resolved improbably. I used to joke about it when I officiated games—telling coaches that if there was something they’d never seen before, they were about to.

More often than not, it happened.

I don’t pretend to understand it. I’ve simply learned to expect it—and to stay ready.

By the end of this period, I was comfortable in my skin and confident in my work. I knew the community. I knew the system. And I knew myself well enough to recognize that effectiveness didn’t require visibility.

But it did require endurance.

What I hadn’t yet learned was how long that endurance would be tested—or how costly quiet competence can become when institutions value silence more than integrity.

That lesson was coming.